The Witching Hour
by AnneStan86
Summary: Lt. Harper Finkle of the NYPD's Paranormal Crimes Division is more than qualified to handle a stalker ex, a mother who is breaking down, an overprotective boss, a partner guilty of sexual harassment and a serial killer. She just wishes she wasn't...
1. Prologue

**The Witching Hour**

**Disclaimer**: All recognizable elements of the following story that pertain to the television show _Wizards of Waverly Place_ belong to the corporation known as **Disney**. However, the imagination required to produce the story is in the ownership of the author.

**Author's Note**: Have you read the _Just In Case Files_? That has inspired this. This is terribly AU, I'm taking great creative liberties and I doubt there are to be any real pairings. And before you all heckle and say that this is too far-fetched to be believed—Harper would never be tough enough to be a cop, I hear some of you saying right now—just think how tough one would have to be to grow up in the type of household the show alludes to and still have the capability to be cheerful.

* * *

**Prologue**

_**Manhattan Cemetery  
**_ **March 28: The Witching Hour**

_Run...Keep running...Don't look behind you..._

He could hear each word pound his mind as his feet pounded the dirt.

_They'll catch you...Just get out of the gate...Keep running..._

He could feel his legs growing weaker by the moment but he knew that if he slowed down for even a millisecond, his pursuer would capture him.

_Just a few hundred yards...You can do it...Don't stop now..._

Oh God, how had it come to this? For millennia, his kind had been the predators of the night and it was an unwritten rule that there were to be no other hunters. How had they suddenly become the prey, the hunted, victims of merciless killing?

_Keep running..._

He knew he was young, in the eyes of his kind and the kind they pursued. He had been warned of this newfound danger that lurked in the same shadows but his need to feed had greatly outweighed his need for safety. He had figured that there would be many of his kind out and he would be left unharmed. He had been wrong and this was the price for his ignorance.

Almost there...Keep running...Keep...Keep...Keep

The shadows of night appeared to be darkening. He was only inches away from the gate, so close that his fingers could wrap around the wrought iron bars if he dived. He would survive to tell the tale. Just three...two...one more step.

And just as the tips of his fingers grazed the cool iron, he felt his body being jerked back by a force he did not recognize.

_It is over._

*****

**Waverly Garden Apartments  
**_**March 28: 3:26 AM**_

_Ring._

_Ring._

_Ring._

The sound of the doorbell filtered through the alcohol-induced coma that I had placed myself in. I was not a drinker by any means, unless you counted the two glasses of wine consumed nightly at dinner, so the few straight shots of tequila I had downed last night at my partner's retirement party had put me under. And since the sound of my own doorbell was causing my head to beat the rhythm of the samba, I knew that it was going to be the worst Monday I've had in a long time.

_Ring._

My sight was blurry when I finally opened my eyes but I could still clearly make out the red digits of my alarm clock. **3:28. **Letting out a string of words that would have made my former best friend blush, I sat up and reached over to turn on my bedside lamp. Rubbing the heels of my hands over my eyes to force myself to completely visit the waking world, I let out another curse as I heard my godforsaken doorbell ring yet again.

I know New York is supposed to be the city that never sleeps but there are exceptions. One of those exceptions happens to be a cop, i.e. myself, who is in the middle of her three-day weekend and is sleeping off a nice buzz. Which brings me to another point and that is whoever would be waking up said cop must have a death wish since I rarely get days off to sleep.

_Ring._

I could hear rustling from the apartment next to mine and knew that I would have to answer my new alarm clock before my nosy neighbor—a.k.a. my mother—decided to do it for me. Slipping out of the warm cocoon my blankets had made, I tossed an old sweatshirt that had belonged to an ex-boyfriend over my panties and tank top before rushing to my door.

Ready to give the soul who had interrupted my beauty sleep a piece of my mind, I undid the many locks that keep my apartment secure and flung open the door. But dishing out a well-deserved torrent of verbal abuse was going to more difficult than I originally thought as I was missing a victim. Confused but most definitely not amused at this turn of events, I took a few steps away from the open door to see if I could find someone lurking down the hall or around a corner.

Finding no evidence that it had been one of the local pranksters or my ex-boyfriend who was currently into stalking me, I made to return to my apartment and my bed. And when I did, I felt my toe hit something solid that should never have been there. A large envelope in the shade of goldenrod that was popular with private investigators and post offices only.

I glanced around to make sure that I was truly alone before I leaned down to pick it up. Ripping open the top, I peered inside at the contents to find that some unknown entity had awoken me in the middle of the night to hand deliver photographs before disappearing. In my line of work, strange occurrence like this not only required me to pay attention but to investigate as well.

Entering my apartment and securing the dozen locks once more, I flipped on every light I owned as I made my way to the kitchen and proceeded to pour myself a generous serving of red wine before dumping the contents of the envelope onto the counter. There were at least twenty photos before me, each of them more screwed up then the last. Some were of men, most of women, but there was one or two that depicted children—I have never gotten used to seeing photos of children doing anything but smiling.

I could tell that the subjects had been abused and tortured, even though the battle wounds appeared to have been cleaned and left barely any discernible evidence. But the patterns of the bruising varied as did the magnitude and on some, where cuts were all you could see, others appeared to have no cuts at all. It was disturbing to see what the person who had done this was capable of but what troubled me even more was that I had been chosen to be the recipient of this package of morbidity.

I wanted to burn these photos and pretend that they had never appeared on my doorstep—probably would have too—but a flicker in the part of my mind that belongs to the job came about. There was one similarity that each photo had. It was so subtle that I was a bit shocked to pick up on it at all. There were candles surrounding the body and an odd pattern had been carved in the exact location of the heart. It looked like two circles intersecting, one circle encompassing a triangle and the other an eye.

Disturbed at the images before and a little pissed that I would have to go to work despite my much-needed day off, I gathered the photos to return them to the envelope. But before I could slip the first ones inside, a bit of crumpled white paper at the bottom caught my eye. Retrieving it from the inside of the envelope and smoothing it open, I could feel the blood drain from my face and my body grow ten degrees colder as I read the words scrawled across in black ink.

_It has begun..._

_**TBC...**_


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

**Streets of New York: Heading To PCD HQ  
**_March 28: 7:32 AM ETA: 36 Minutes and Counting_

I hate Mondays. I especially hate Mondays when I am supposed to be at home but instead find myself in the midst of the drudgery that is the rat race—a.k.a. every job-having New Yorker heading to work and every job-seeking New Yorker searching for work in the same area.

After three hours of mulling over the contents of the surprise envelope I had received, reading the same three words again and again in hopes that they would somehow change or erase themselves, I knew that there was no way that I would be able to ignore their existence for an extra day. The images of those nameless face had be ingrained in my memory banks and burned into my corneas, flashing so clearly in my mind's eye when I tried to sleep that the jolt I was given was better than caffeine. And while the imagery was nightmarish enough to give a leading horror director in Hollywood enough material to make his next summer blockbuster a hit, I was more disturbed that I had been chosen to be the person recipient and my benefactor had disappeared immediately after delivery.

All this—coupled with the fact that my boss was an overprotective nut job who would have put me on desk detail for withholding this type of information for twenty-four hours longer than he deemed necessary—had me dressed in what my mother called _my serious clothes_ and on the road by seven.

As usual, the ride to HQ had been smooth sailing until I was only a few miles away. Traffic that moved in baby steps was a common occurrence, one that I was accustomed to being a native, but I still let out my routine string of expletives. Going nowhere anytime soon, I cracked open the window of my sedan and reached blindly for the pack of cigarettes I kept nestled in the middle console. I pulled one of the white sticks out, silently noting that I would need to stop by a convenience store to stock up sometime within the day, and used the car lighter while making a half-hearted promise to quit yet again.

I had started my nicotine addiction my last year of attendance at the academy just around the same time I was granted entrance to places serving alcohol, something to calm the nerves that every cadet feels when they wonder if they will actually receive a position on the force. It was not a habit that I was particularly proud of having nor was it one that I knew would end anytime soon. But with the stresses of living next door to an emotionally broken mother combined with the grotesque nature of my job, I held onto it like a security blanket and wondered often how I had come to be in my twenties before the addiction had hit. After all, no one could say that I had had an easy upbringing and what had made me strong enough to do the work I do would have made a normal person crumble.

My car rolled forward another block and a half before I had to slam on my brakes with enough force that I was propelled forward, a consequence of a damned bike messenger getting too close to my front bumper. Laying on my horn and cursing the boy loud enough that he briefly glanced back at me with scorn, I took another drag of the toxic smoke and momentarily closed my eyes to keep my nerves from being frayed. I was the type of person who drew confidence from minimized danger and the majority of the city's population being on the road with me exceeded the acceptable level of danger in my book. These were the days that I wished driving a car was not in my job description and I wished I had listened when I had been advised to be a writer instead of a cop.

A writer...now that would have been the perfect career for someone like me to fall into. Tap into my creative side, legions of admirers who knew me through my fictional characters, enough flexibility in my schedule to allow time for any hobbies I decided to pursue to flourish and the ability to be a recluse if I so chose. I had even entertained the idea briefly during my first semester of college. However, one forensic science course and a seminar on the pathology of a serial killer put on by the FBI had me revisiting the euphoria I had felt as a teenager helping my crush hunt down the things that go bump in the night. Who would have thought then that I would wind up doing it for a living as an adult?

Snuffing out my cigarette, I was relieved to find that the traffic was beginning to thin as various cars broke away to travel down the many side streets. The tension in my muscles gradually relaxed and I was able to gather the nerves needed to go into HQ to deliver my late night package to not only my boss, but to the brand new partner I had yet to meet.

Partners...I was notorious in the NYPD for my ability to drive them away. I had had six in my decade long career in the force, two since joining up with the PCD. Men with alpha male personalities who drew strength in their ability to getting people to bend to their wills were no match for my caustic personality and the fact that I had the inability to feel threatened. Some were old-fashioned in their thoughts that female partners were on a level below theirs and would let their emotions overrun them on a job. As I had learned at a young age that any type of emotion could be used against you in any type of situation, I rarely deviated from my tough-as-nails persona. The fact that my partners never tended to last past the six-month mark had leant me the Ice Bitch moniker.

My last partner had been wary when he had learned that I would be his final partner before retirement, even more wary than he was when he had learned he was transferring into the PCD. I was no different with him and delivered my scathing sarcasm at regular intervals, hitting below the belt on more than one occasion. A month in, I could tell that he was ready to apply for early retirement but that changed the month after. One bad case, multiple deaths on each side, a bullet in my shoulder, and one perpetrator caught before my partner could be hit had changed his mind. The fact that I had taken him down with the injury I had received had earned his unfailing respect.

That was four years ago and I had to deal with his replacement a day earlier than I wanted in the midst of something I knew would be bigger than all the past cases combined. Thus, beginning the new cycle of chew-them-up-and-spit-them-out.

Whipping into the parking lot and pulling into a space next to a black-and-white, I pulled my auburn hair into a no-nonsense ponytail before grabbing the envelope off the passenger seat and exiting the car. I ignored the looks that I received from my fellow officers when I slammed the door a little harder than intended—the younger that were still strangers appearing confused and concerned and the ones who knew my reputation well looking like they wished the earth would open—and headed towards the nondescript brown building. There must have been something in my gait or on my face that screamed _Do Not Approach_ because everyone steered clear, leaving my path clear both to the elevator and off of it once it had reached the floor where the PCD convened.

I was one of the few people who could barge into our fifty-two-year-old captain's office without an invitation, whether or not he had a meeting going on, and not receive some kind of consequence. I suppose it had a little something to do with the fact that he was a bit sweet on my mother and many in the department commented that it was because I reminded him of the daughter he lost when he was a young beat cop. But mostly, it was because I was not the type to give a damn about protocol or hierarchy. My captain had learned this early on in our relationship while others were more hardheaded on the topic (i.e. the stuff shirts on the Wizard Council).

Slamming open the door to his office, I offered only a fleeting look at the dark-haired main sitting in one of the chairs before proceeding the few steps it took to stand before Captain Abe Campbell's desk. "Well, isn't this a nice surprise?" Abe commented as he stood, his six-foot frame towering over me. "I should've known that you'd give up a day off to initiate your new partner into the fold."

"That must've been sarcasm, Abe, because you and I both know that the last thing I wanted after Lou's retirement was another dim-witted partner who doesn't know his ass from his gun," I retorted.

Abe chuckled at my response, his azure eyes twinkling with mirth. He was used to such scathing remarks and commonly claimed ignorance when many other department heads would reprimand. "Yeah, but we also know that the chief would have my head if I let you out on the streets without some type of supervision. So, let me introduce you to Lieutenant Liam Quinn."

I turned to gauge the man who was getting to his feet as he offered a hand that I promptly ignored. He was taller than Abe by a good four inches but where the captain was barrel-chested and think-limbed, Lt. Quinn was lanky and his muscles sinewy. Groomed dark hair with equally dark eyes, a crooked nose, and square jaw encompassing a crooked smile reminded me greatly of a boy that I had once loved. While others would have been mildly offended that I had chosen not to shake their hand, Liam Quinn merely smirked as he let the proffered appendage drop.

"So, where did the chief dig up this one? He doesn't look old enough to be on the road to retirement," I said.

"I'm a good fifteen years away from my gold watch," Liam replied.

A brow rose before I could control the muscle that lifted it. "Damn and here I was hoping that our relationship would be a short one. So, let me guess, you caused some trouble—nothing too big because even you wouldn't be that dumb—in your last unit and instead of firing you and opening up the chance for a lawsuit, they stuck your ass here because out of sight is out of mind."

"They told me you were hot but a handful that could be more dangerous than the criminals we're after." Leaning forward so his lips brushed the shell of my ear, he whispered, "That's okay, I like my partners feisty."

"Just remember, I have a gun and an aim that makes numerous snipers jealous. I also have friends who can make it where no forensic evidence linking me is ever found," I whispered, an innocent smile plastered on my face. He visibly swallowed as he backed two steps out of my personal space.

"If the two of you are done with the kindergarten routine, maybe Harper could tell me just why she's here on her day off? And I know it's not just because you felt a need to intimidate your new partner.

Knowing that was the metaphoric bell ending the match, I threw the mystery envelope containing the photos onto the desk. I watched as he scattered them onto the surface of the desk, his lips forming a hard line and a prominent tick showing as his jaw clenched together. Sinking down into his chair, he ran his hands continuously over his face and through his salt-and-pepper hair until he resembled the grizzled homicide detective he once was instead of the distinguished department head he was currently employed as. All the scenes that were captured on film were horrendous in their own rights but I knew that it was the ones of children that were getting to him in particular.

"Where did you get these?" he inquired softly, the deep baritone sounding gravelly as he tried withholding his emotions.

"My doorbell wouldn't stop ringing at three-thirty this morning. I thought it was one of the teens in my building—they play harass the cop on dares—but when I got there to give them a piece of my mind, there was no evidence anyone had been there except for this envelope," I told them. "And before you think that I was a little drunk from Lou's party and stepped over it without realizing when I got home, trust me when I say I would've noticed."

"And you're certain this isn't just some kid's idea of a sick joke?" Liam asked.

"Kids tend to think on a smaller scale when it comes to torture and death. The neighbor dog no one likes, the stray cat no one would miss. It's also rare to find a kid who'll stick to this kind of ritualized killing with technology that keeps their attention going ten different directions at any given time," I responded. "It's the generation of ADD and no amount of Ritalin can cure it."

"The carvings also lean towards a more paranormal aspect, symbols that wouldn't be found on the more typical killings. Says the killer believes something will happen—whether it be good or bad, I don't know—if these symbols are put upon the victims' bodies," Abe said.

"There's one more thing—" I pulled the scrap with the inscribed message out of my pocket and presented it to them "—I don't think the killings are going to be over any time soon. I also don't think that the person who left the envelope is the killer. The message feels too much like a warning to me, like the sender himself can't stop it but knows that I can. And that I will."

We all felt the foreboding that comes with knowing that a case is going to become a lot worse before it has a chance of getting better. Abe pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath in, letting it out in a sigh. It was his indication that he was going against every fiber of his being by making the decision to give me the case.

However, seeing as I was the recipient of the envelope, he really had no choice this time. "Okay, you take the lead. How should we go about starting this?" Abe inquired.

"There's a number on the corner of my desk calendar for a tech analyst named Gracie Payton at the FBI. Have Potts contact her to run the photos through facial recognition and find out just who our unfortunate souls happen to be. Also, get her to run that note, see if anything pops up with the handwriting even if it's doubtful there will be," I ordered. "She'll probably give him some shit because that's just the way she is but just tell her that it's for me and that she owes me one."

"And dare I ask what you're going to be doing?"

One corner of my mouth lifted in what Abe once called my _trouble smirk_. "Oh, I think this might be the perfect time for my new partner to get acquainted with the Wizard Council and vice versa, don't you?"

**TBC...**


	3. Chapter Two

_Quick Author's Note_: Thanks for the reviews and even more for putting me on your alerts lists, as I understand that is all most readers have time for nowadays. This chapter is meant to clear up questions asked about the previous chapters. However, seeing as I don't know the future and therefore have no idea on how the secret's going to be leaked on the show, I'm making it up as I go along. Call it, fan fiction author's privilege.

**Chapter Two**

**Wizard Council – New York Branch**

March 28: 9:41 AM

The common man would like to believe that the Council would hold court in another realm or an office building in an upscale neighborhood in this one. Even one of the gothic throwbacks that are sprinkled throughout the city would seem like a better option. And while it is true that the main operation where the higher ups of the wizard world make the bulk of the decisions are indeed still located in their own realm, the branches of the Council that cater to us mere mortals are far from resembling any type of grandeur on the outside. These branches of their government are established in old warehouses, rundown motels and other buildings centered in neighborhoods that they have made the public believe too dangerous for even the most ruthless of criminals.

Where is the local branch located in New York? An old Paint-a-Plate warehouse that was abandoned a handful of years ago when the corporation went belly up. It is the last place that a regular person would pinpoint for all-powerful beings to convene for a regular person does not know the motto that they live by. _Everything is not as it seems_.

So why all the big secrecy about a damn meeting place when the entire world knows of the existence of wizards and other forms of magical beings? Easy, the world was never supposed to find out this top-secret information in the first place. However, about eleven years ago, a certain wizard-in-training let the secret slip to his flavor of the week and the bigmouth told her friends who told their friends and so on. One of these friends had a daddy who was an influential journalist for CNN or MSNBC or whatever, he put it on the air—which, of course, led to every publication running the story from tabloids to small town newsletters—and thus, the public became aware that there really are things that go bump in the night.

Knowledge led to widespread panic as it always does in cases like these and every congressman, senator, and local councilman was expected to do something about the problem. After all, who was going to protect them when any Tom, Dick, or Harry could wave a wand and the locks intending to keep them safe could go _poof_? Countless meetings later, one full year of them to be exact, and the answer that everyone came up with was to have branches of the Council discreetly set up in every major city in our world who would act as the liaisons.

This calmed fears for a while until someone who was not a total dumb ass asked, "If these branches that are set up in the mortal world are comprised of only their kind, are they really going to help us when their kind commits a crime?" People with relatively good common sense agreed with his assessment and the public demanded answers from the politicians once again. Another year went by and when a serial killer in Boston turned out to be a former wizard dealing in black market magic, the higher ups in the Council conceded that a solution had to found.

Thus, a Paranormal Crimes Division was set up in every city that housed one of the branches the Wizard Council had previously set up. Comprised of only mortals, the PCD is able to keep the safety of the mortal public at the forefront without worrying about adhering to the proper protocol set forth by the wizard world. However, in this regard, it means having to play nice with two sets of stuff shirts to get whatever we need instead of just the one that every other department of the NYPD gets to deal with.

Did I mention that while I had the capacity to play nice with others, I no longer had the patience? Following protocol set in place by people that did not have to face what I did on a day-to-day basis was so definitely not my forte, especially when that protocol involved pansy-assed members of a council that would not know a revolver if it were pointed straight at them. Members of a council who thought serial killers just needed to be _rehabilitated_ before reentering society and becoming productive once again—those would be the same asses I would then have to save when the same killer decided to victimize them next. My job would be so much easier if criminals were actually remembered to be criminals and kept locked up.

Looking over at my new partner, I could tell that he was less than impressed with the accommodations that the Wizard Council had chosen for their offices. "With all the power these people have, you'd think they'd choose somewhere a little more...interesting," he commented when he noticed my eyes on him.

I simply raised a brow in response, knowing that his opinion would soon change once we were inside. Because as drab as the outside of the building happened to be, the inside was much the opposite. Pushing open the steel door, I ignored the surprised air that Liam sucked in and marched up to the desk not twenty feet from the entrance where the twenty-something receptionist was blathering on an earpiece while smacking her gum. Impatiently, I yanked it from her ear by the cord and earned myself a resounding _hey_ that I promptly ignored.

"Your head honcho, he in today?" I demanded.

Her blue eyes narrowed a fraction and she blew a bored bubble until it popped. "That depends. You have an appointment?"

She must have been a relatively new addition if she dared to ask that question as it was well known that meetings with me were top priority, whether or not they were planned was hardly an issue. "Why don't you do your job and use that phone to dial him up instead of sharing gossip with your girlfriends? Just tell him that it's Harper Finkle," I commanded.

The blonde rolled her eyes and replaced her earpiece, her manicured fingers dialing the required extension number. "Hi, Louise, there's this—" here is where she gave me a look that made my own unvarnished fingers itching for my gun "—woman and she says that she's here for Mr. Russo...no, she's got some man with her...Harper Finkle...yes...okay."

She acted as though she were being tortured by some invisible unknown force—being where we were, she very well could have been—as she pressed the button to end the call and return her attention back to us. "Louise says Mr. Russo is on his way out but he can spare a minute or two. She says that you know the way."

He could only _spare_ a minute or two? "How _generous_ of him," I drawled. I did not wait for another response from the woman I could break in half if I so wanted before making my way to the elevator with Liam in tow.

"So, what is this Russo character like?" he inquired once inside.

"Arrogant, egotistical, pompous and pretentious," I answered without pause.

"So, a total prick then?"

"Basically." I smirked, deciding that I was already becoming accustomed to my new partner and that the chances were high that I would end up liking him better than the last. Or I would if he was smart and kept the sexual innuendos at a minimum.

Silence blanketed us as we finished the climb to the top of the building, the elevator doors sliding open minutes later to reveal two simple secretarial settings belonging to each of the two doors the wall behind them encompassed. On the left sat a middle-aged woman with bird-like features complete with beady black eyes, the bun on top of her head doing little to control the frizzy nature of her chestnut hair. Despite the severity of her appearance, I knew her to be one of the kindest women on the planet and she always delivered a warm grin with her greetings.

Louise, who was situated at the desk on the right, however, was the polar opposite of her colleague in everything from looks to temperament. From the gray of her hair to the twinkling blue of her eyes to the slight bulge of her midsection, she gave any onlooker the illusion of being the doting grandmother. Well, she did until she opened her mouth. Neither of us cared for one another, a fact made obvious by the way I returned her sneer with a chilling grin of my own as I bypassed her to enter her boss's lair.

I was used to the grandeur used to decorate the offices of Council members but I could tell that Liam was not by the way he let out a girlish gasp. And who was I to fault him for it since the first sight was always the most off-putting. After all, the shelves of this office alone had enough antique first edition books—both by wizard and mortal authors alike—to provide a decade's worth of funding to every third-world school and library. Just one of the many statues and paintings could keep an entire museum afloat for half a century. Not to mention that the value of both the hand-hooked rug and the desk sitting on it equaled what I had put out for four years of tuition. And _do not_ get me started on the fact that the airhead manning the receptionist desk probably makes my yearly salary in a week.

Yeah, so I am a little bitter over the indulgence that the Wizard Council provides their people when I barely make enough to cover basic living expenses. You would be too if the person you were relying on for information dressed in clothes that cost more than your car and had the same humble beginnings as you (i.e. a sandwich shop bordering on bankruptcy).

I noisily cleared my throat to gain his attention and could have been mistaken but I swear I saw his hands falter momentarily before they continued in packing the briefcase. However, there was no way I mistook the two shades of pale his face became when his eyes drew their way to mine. "Harper," he greeted me, that false polite tone that politicians use colored his voice. "I see you brought a friend. What brings you two by to see me today?"

"My _partner_ and I are here for strictly business, as always. Did I interrupt something?"

He waved a hand as though he were nonchalantly combating a fly. "Actually, I was just heading out. I have to be on the other side of the city in an hour so if you don't mind—"

"Trust me, I mind. Besides, isn't a wizard using mortal transportation just so last season? I hear all the rage is using a wand and teleporting these days," I said. His hands stilled as he stared at me with an expression of disbelief. He never has completely gotten over how I stopped believing he could rope the moon and walk on water. "Why don't you have a seat so we can finish this conversation and then go back to ignoring each other's existence?"

Justin plopped into his chair—a bit tiredly, if I was not mistaken—and rubbed both sides of his temple. "What is it this time, Harper? I don't exactly have the time to deal with one of your tirades."

My eyes narrowed incrementally. "My _tirades_, as you so call them, are what keep this city safe and you sitting in the lap of luxury that you've become accustomed to," I informed him, throwing the envelope of disturbing imagery on his desk with a bit of smugness. "Besides, you're about to have all the time in the world for my tirades once you see what I've brought you."

He rolled his eyes before dumping the photographs out, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he scrutinized each one. "Where—" a combination of coughing, gasping and dry heaving cut his words off. Pushing back from the desk, he ran over to the cart that held his fine liquor and poured a generous amount of amber liquid. Once thrown back, he cleared his throat and attempted to speak again. "Where did you get these?"

"My doorstep," I replied, taking a seat in one of the butter-soft leather armchairs in front of his desk. "And before you ask, no, I do not know the identity of the psychopath who sent them. That's actually why I'm here. I figured you might've heard some rumblings in the wizard world about people going missing and ending up as sacrificial lambs."

He poured himself another drink before returning to his seat, his body sagging like a half-used bag of flour. "I know we're not each other's favorite people anymore but do you really think that I would keep it from you if I had?" he demanded softly. "And how do you know these deaths are sacrificial and not just run-of-the-mill serial killings? It could be a mortal behind this."

I hated that I had to be the one to burst that hopeful bubble that he had taken residence inside but I had seen my share of serial killings during my career—both with magical and non-magical circumstances alike—and I knew that the chances of it pertaining to the latter were one in a billion. "Granted, if it were just photographs of dead victims who were severely beaten then I would chalk it up to a nice normal serial killing. But the fact that they're lying in a circle of candles combined with the symbols carved into their skin leads me to believe that this is more on the magic side."

"And let's not forget that Harper is the lead investigator for the PCD. So, the fact that she received them and not another cop has to be some kind of message," Liam spoke for the first time, his conclusion garnishing a bit of my respect.

"It all boils down to this, Justin. I don't give a flying fart in space about the reason behind these killings. I know you do because you have to and the people you answer to only care about the why. All I need to know is whom the bastard is and how I'm going to stop them to keep my city from living in terror. Since we both have a vested interest in finding whoever the person who is doing this, I intend to keep you informed on any new developments and you better do the same," I told him, standing and preparing to take my leave now that he was a good two shades paler and shaking.

However, before I did exit from his office, I had to get in one more parting shot. "But Justin, be warned that you haven't seen the full extent of my wrath yet. So if you keep _anything_ from me due to some kind of messed up politician's code, your memory of Alex on her _worst_ day will seem like a dream."

**TBC...**


End file.
